


Blessed Are the Righteous

by grimsgay



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Alcohol, Disturbing Themes, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Fade to Black, M/M, Religious Fanaticism, Religious Guilt, Sin being a sinner...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-10-31 21:06:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17856950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimsgay/pseuds/grimsgay
Summary: “Careful- I’m a dangerous man,” is his half-hearted response. But sin leans in close, enough so that his long hair brushes against Ja’far’s sensitive ear tips. Lust, heavy and molten, shoots through him, thickening the tension. It will only blow apart when they finally choose to act on their desires.“I’m a holy man. Danger doesn’t scare me.”******A dragon Age AU where Sin is the Inquisitor, and Ja'far is his companion.





	Blessed Are the Righteous

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is not lighthearted... That's my warning to all potential readers ahaha... 
> 
> Anyway, I've been playing a lot of DAI lately and got really inspired with SinJa- And this was born over the course of like two full months oof... School is a struggle.

_Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter._

_Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just._

_Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow._

_In their blood the Maker's will is written._

_***_

_—Canticle of Benedictions 4:10-11_

*********

i)

 

The first time Sin encounters a fade rift is the first time he considers praying. He’s never been particularly religious, but compared to a tear in reality itself, the guilt of sin seems like a warm hug.

As magic explodes around him and bloody war cries echo with each step, he swings his sword. He fights as a warrior, as he always has, desperate to prove his life has some small value. His allies, if he can call them that, are preoccupied, and he is stuck facing a rage demon entirely on his own. He drops his sword and rolls across the ground to avoid a blast of magma-

But instead of reclaiming his weapon, he channels something unknown within him. The sensation of lightning crackles from his palm. It’s pain, raw and searing, worse than any he’s ever known, but not yet enough to cripple him. He thinks himself dead or perhaps just dying- But he isn’t. When the pain clears, the demons are gone- _dead._ The rift has been closed, and they are safe, but more than that, they are _saved._

In his grasp emerges the key to their salvation.

Sin was never a religious man, but even he must admit, that as he stands, closing the very fabrics of reality itself, he feels powerful. He feels godly.

When he forms the inquisition, Sin knows who he is, and soon, so shall all of Thedas. He is the Herald of Andraste, a holy being. He is their religious icon. He is justice, judgment. He will not bow to any enemy of the inquisition, darkspawn nor mortal.

********* 

ii)

 

Sin wakes to the sound of a dagger embedding itself in wood, mere inches from his face. Immediately, he’s rolling onto his feet, preparing for an attack.

This isn’t the first time someone has tried to kill him, and it certainly won’t be the last- it is, however, by far the strangest, and the first actual assassination attempt. Sin chokes out a bitter laugh at the absurdity of the situation, though he still has to give the stranger kudos for somehow getting past his multitude of guards.

The assassin inches forward, their feet not making a single distant sound across the floor, and Sin wonders for a second if he might be hallucinating. The second dagger flying towards his face confirms he isn’t.

He barely manages to catch the blade in time, a testimony to the stranger’s skill- Blood drips from where he grips the small weapon, but he ignores the sting. “I don’t know whether to be terrified or impressed- Tell me, how did you get in here?”

The assassin steps from shadows to moonlight, and immediately, Sin is in awe. He is male, most likely, and definitely Dalish. His pointed ears and emerald markings give it away. Though what a Dalish elf is doing in Fereldan attempting to murder the inquisitor is unknown.

“I climbed.”

“You climbed. As in, up to my window?”

“The fortress.”

Sin splutters. “You scaled Skyhold? Are you mad?”

The elf shrugs, eyes gleaming at his prey through the dim lighting. Sin knows he’s the pray, both from the predatory posture of his visitor and from the intense leer. He’s strong, he might be able to win in a fight now that he’s aware he isn’t alone- but there’s no way of counterbalancing this man’s deadly expression.

If looks could kill, he’d have died already, he knows this.

In a flash, the elf moves- His nimble feet propelling him to the back of the room where his first dagger landed. He pulls the weapon from the wood and stalks forward towards his prey.

Sin knows he should move, but finds himself frozen, limbs shaking. This is an _assassin,_ a wolf pursuing its rabbit- He needs to move away from the deadly blade he knows is headed straight to his throat- Only it isn’t. The elf stops inches from his face, deadly eyes locked on petrified lips, and the blade clatters to the floor at his feet.

Sin stares.

“I wish to join the Inquisition.”

He wants to-! Surely he must be trapped in a nightmare, Sin thinks, wondering how in the world this could possibly be real. Only a dream could make sense of any of the circumstances that have just occurred. But he isn’t. He knows he isn’t. He doesn’t dream often, and when he does, it’s usually the same recurring vision, over and over.

This is no dream. He chokes out, “do you have a name?”

In response, the elf shrugs. “Some call me Ja’far.”

It’s good enough, Sin thinks. “Ja’far…”

He’s reached a dilemma.

The smart thing would be to turn the elf away, alert the guards, and dispose of those who might see him assassinated in the future. Yet, he’s captivated. He can’t remove his gaze, can’t back away, and can’t stop the desire welling inside him.

Ja’far is beautiful, in the deadliest way possible. He exudes grace and precision, but his gaze is poisonous. His body is that of a killer, and Sin knows not to underestimate him. He knows he’s playing a dangerous game allowing the man to stay, but he can’t bring himself to deny the request.

“...Yes. You can stay.”

That night, he _does_ dream; of teeth at his throat hidden by coquettish eyes.

*********

iii)

 

“I have sinned.” He tells the Chantry mother, one night, in isolation. “I am unsure if I can be forgiven.”

_Pale flesh, smooth, milky, and supple- Unmarked and untouched, ready to be claimed, but protected by jagged teeth and the sting of daggers-_

She shakes her old head, giving him a look of pure disbelief. “You are no sinner, inquisitor.”

_There's a hunger, as only a beast can know, one that will not settle until carmine splatters the surroundings. It’s consuming, obsessive. It’s the craving for the reek of iron and taint of rust. Rough and desperate, it calls out, beckoning-_

“I am.”

_But he isn’t the beast. A wolf disguised in smooth, creamy innocence, bites at his composure. He wants to be devoured. He wants to be drowned in the rotten stench of death and turmoil- For this creature to tear out his throat, sink its claws into pallid limbs, and inject venom into frozen veins-_

“I know I am. There is…Temptation.”

_He wants to touch, to grab, to tear and maul- His soul yearns for the vice of contact. Any contact. There’s something wrong deep inside him, something in his mortal core. He wants the beast to reach into his chest and tear it to shreds. To remove the depravity at the source and keep moving until there’s nothing left of him._

**_There is_ ** _conflict._

_Just as badly, he aches to leave it be. To give in to the thirst and drink from his would-be lover’s breath. He screams and struggles inside himself searching for a decision-_

“Then you must resist. Seek your repentance and find your own path to forgiveness.”

_-He does not beg to the Maker until after he's found, breathing heavily, covered in the remnants of his sin._

*********

iv)

 

Ja’far sneaks into his room one night, when he’s drunk off his ass, but still somehow alert enough to dodge the object thrown at his head. Ja’far's accuracy has always been scary, and even when sober Sin has to try ridiculously hard to move out of the way. When he recovers from the shock, he moves to retrieve the item and finds a small pouch.

“What is this?”

“Business.”

_[ He is a fool for thinking he could get away consequence free. His care is slipping, but he can still fix things. He must act quickly, however. They are a guild of some of Thedas’s most skilled killers- Walking into their lair is walking into the lion's den. It’s a death sentence, an execution. For most._

_Ja’far was one of them, and he knows how they function. He need only slit one throat as they sleep, and the greed for power in absence of a leader kills the rest._

_In the following week, he becomes the last of a deadly reign. ]_

Brows furrowing together in confusion, Sin pulls a folded document out. Reading it, he freezes. The words are small on the page compared to the weight they bear, fragile, elegant little things. He does not stop to question just whose blood is on the edge of the page.

“...A hit? This is the hit on me, yes? I already knew. You tried to kill me.” No… If it were about Ja’far’s chase on his life, he’s certain the elf would just try again. This is different. Something's changed.

“I have dealt with the contractor personally. Nobody will follow up on my failure.”

The answer sucker punches him, and Sin frowns. “You mean you killed them.”

Ja’far doesn’t respond verbally, instead just takes a seat on the edge of his bed and plays with one of his daggers. Upon closer inspection, there’s definitely blood matted into his hair, on the fibers of his clothes, and in the decorative ridges of his favorite blade.

“You won’t be bothered by any more assassins,” Ja’far says, voice authoritative.

Sin should be unnerved by the implications, he really should- yet his morals have skewed off-center in recent weeks, and try as he will, he can’t bring himself back to what most would deem an acceptable state of mind. There is something wrong with him, surely-

The dangerous tint to Ja’far’s gaze makes him shudder, and _oh maker,_ he has it bad.

 

********* 

1)

 

Sin tells his life story, over the glow of torchlight, after most of the inquisition has retired to bed.

“My father was a retired Templar who survived the blight but lost a limb- he retired as a fisherman, but the locals resented him, and later had him killed. I left home shortly after sickness claimed my mother...” There’s something in his expression that makes Ja’far feel special. The inquisitor has hardly shared any significant information with him, but what he has shared feels personal. Perhaps there is trust between them after all.

“...What do your tattoos mean?”

The question is abrupt, seemingly off topic. Ja’far blinks away his confusion.

“Hmm?”

“Valassin, the marks of the Dalish… They all mark servitude to different gods- what do yours mean?”

Ahh.

“I’m not Dalish.”

He isn’t, and that’s the truth. He does not remember what his life was like before he held a blade and doesn’t care to try. His tattoos, at one point, were an effort to feel some source of community- he thought maybe if he marked his skin he might become Dalish, perhaps find a family. But marks without purpose are simply that- markings. He is not religious, nor spiritual, nor will he ever be.

“But your-”

“I’m not Dalish. They’re only tattoos.”

His skin is dyed emerald by his own hand- And anyway, even if he had grown up Dalish-

“...I don’t bow to any god.”

 

*********

2)

 

Later, on the battlements, Sin brings up the killing again. “You said I won’t be bothered by more assassins.” From where they stand, they can see the vast deserts in the west of Orlais, and the extensive wilderness of Fereldan. It’s strange, when Ja’far considers his loyalties, that he now stands atop the whole world he once considered untouchable.

Ja’far nods. “You won’t.”

“Oh, that’s a shame…” Sin trails off, then, and something settles in Ja’far’s gut that makes him shudder and twitch. He isn’t thinking of his occupation anymore- Not of information, or contacts, or killing- Sin holds his full attention, and Ja’far can see exactly where his words lead.

“Careful- I’m a dangerous man,” is his half-hearted response. But sin leans in close, enough so that his long hair brushes against Ja’far’s sensitive ear tips. Lust, heavy and molten, shoots through him, thickening the tension. It will only blow apart when they finally choose to act on their desires.

“I’m a holy man. Danger doesn’t scare me.”

Somewhere, Ja’far knows he should leave- He should pull back, turn, run, and hide. Sin’s breath on his lips, however, is distracting. Everything about him is distracting and alluring, and Ja’far has always had unfaltering focus, but not like this. He’s stuck in place, and when the distance closes between them, he doesn’t fight back.

Rather, he releases control and lets the hunter claim it’s prey.

*********

3)

 

Ja’far isn’t sure when or why his goals change. Perhaps it’s because he’s never treated as an enemy or outcast. He isn’t used to being looked at with such respect- it’s unnerving at times. It feels as though Sin demands reciprocity, and he must serve and give. Yes. Perhaps that’s why.  
  
(But it doesn’t explain why he spends so many nights in Sin’s personal quarters, nor why they tangle breaths and limbs and hair together as though trying to meld what was torn apart. It doesn’t explain the passion, nor the subtle touches of fingers across cheeks afterward, nor why they so often share a bed rather than going their separate routes.)   
  
Sin is a force to be reckoned with. He is powerful and commanding, and all who stand before him must either bow or face his judgment. Ja’far knows this, it’s why he would never dare go against the inquisitor’s holy will.   
  
_[ They are nude, pressed closely front to front under a mound of soft furs and heavy blankets. There is no cold, only intimacy. Fingertips trace the edge of one elven ear up to its point, earning a soft shiver. Ja’far raises a brow, his head cocking to one side in confusion. Sin has played with his hair before, but never his ears._   
  
_“They’re quite pretty.”_   
  
_“Most would call them disgusting.”_   
  
_“Is that why you never let me lead?”_   
  
_“No.” He growls out, though somewhere he knows he’ll have to face the truth sooner or later. And the truth is this: In all his life, the only human lovers who did not leave immediately after the first romp in the sheets are those he himself bedded. He’s too involved now to let Sin walk out after ravaging him. He won’t allow it._   
  
_Pressing the inquisitor back into the sheets, he lets his long nails scrape into Sin’s chest. “I lead because I know you enjoy it.” He leans closer, hissing, “let me put you in your place.” ]_   
  
Ja’far returns to reality then, hands shaking. No... He still can’t place just when his goals changed, but he cannot deny why any longer. Perhaps things turned out the way they did by accident, or maybe it was fate. Regardless, Sin is not the all-powerful inquisitor he plays himself to be. Ja’far knows because he’s witnessed the real Sin first hand.   
  
It goes deeper than that. He’s drunk on the lightheaded feeling he gets just seeing Sin smile. Addicted, even. He wants it all for himself, but more importantly, he wants it all the time. Sin is a drug he never wants to sober from.   
  
Ahh. He gets it now, he thinks. It’s devotion, that much is sure, and if he thinks hard enough, perhaps it could even be considered love.

*********

v)

 

“I can’t lose you.”

Ja’far’s voice is raspy and cracks on the last syllable. It’s unnerving to see him so disheveled. Sin is used to the lack of sleep and thin figure- however, this is new. His posture is wrong; while once regal and confident, he is shaking, bent over himself like a petrified toddler. In this moment, Ja’far is fragile, and Sin feels a sympathetic desire to embrace him.

He refrains.

Ja’far sets a book onto his desk- the cover is aged and faded, but still recognizable as one written on the fade. Looking at the book, Sin knows what Ja’far means, is this:  

_[ The stone crumbles much too quickly for them to pursue safety. Sin tries - he really does - to propel his allies forward. Even that isn’t enough. The explosive crackle of electricity breaks in his ears, and soon they plummet. Even Sin, Andraste’s equal, senses doom for their mortal bodies._

_So he acts- his arm moves on instinct, ripping open a wound and jumping into the fade. ]_

“You were there with me, I wasn’t lost.”

Ja’far bites his lip, an unbreakable habit, despite years of spy training. It’s his sole tell, and sometimes all that reflects his humanity.

“You know what I mean.”

And he does.

_[ The fade is vast, discordant, and labyrinthine. Sin caves and follows the former divine, and his allies follow him, hoping the path they carve may veer away from the terrors of darkspawn that seek their life force._

_In the end, the nightmare finds them. It’s massive limbs and amalgamous eyes and teeth are too much, even Sin can see- But they lack choice. If they do not slay this creature, they cannot pass. They cannot escape the fade. They will be stuck, neither dead nor alive._

_Sin does not play the martyr, allowing another to fill that role. But he considers it. ]_

“I see. I will be more careful then… I will not leave you alone.”

“Do you mean that?”

“I do.”

Through the glimmer of Elven eyes, Sin can tell Ja’far knows exactly how empty his promise is.

*********

4)

 

Ja’far does not trust Sin anymore, not really. How could he, when his emotions are so blatantly disregarded? It’s difficult to break the habits his body now conforms to- Even harder, still, to stop craving the warmth of a man who does not look at him as a partner; as equal.

He’s always known the eyes on him to be possessive, greedy. At a time, he’d been fine with it, infatuated with the idea that maybe there might be something more between them. Something worth cherishing. And for a time, maybe there had been- He’d certainly cherished Sin more than his own life.

They stop sharing a room, stop lounging in bed together, stop talking unless absolutely necessary- Nothing has been spoken between them, no confirmation that they’ve split, but then, Ja’far wonders if they were ever together in the first place. Maybe it was just his childish naivety hoping for something unattainable.

Sometimes, they still stumble into bed together, when the world is dark and their breaths are equally saturated in alcohol. Those nights are the hardest. Those nights Ja’far longs for his blissful ignorance more than ever.

_[ He craves gentleness, longs to run his fingers through the hair of a lover-_

_Sin was never that, at least not in the loving sense of the word. So Ja’far does not treat him like one. He’s rough and aggressive and does not hold anything back- Not that Sin ever asks him to. He gives and he takes, and he puts the inquisitor beneath him, as bitter as it feels to do so-_

_He stops, Sin whines and fights and tries to move- But he stops them both. “This isn’t right,” he says, “we’re both drunk.”_

_He leaves, without looking back, though he later wishes he had. ]_

Maybe things might have been easier if he had. Maybe it would’ve ended differently, had he chosen gentle, emotional lovemaking over the volatile manifestation of their sexual tension. If he’d shown some vulnerability, maybe Sin would have cared, too. Or maybe he wouldn’t have.

Maybe that’s the nature of Ja’far’s naïveté- that he’s perpetually predispositioned to view Sin through rose-colored lenses.

The realization hits him hard and leaves him stumbling, back pressed up against a wall. Yes… As much as he longs to move on, he’s certain he can’t. He cares, oh Maker, does he… He cares too much, and Sin, too little.

This devotion, it's a poison, and it’s consuming him.

 

*********

vi)

 

They do not dance in Halamshiral- Ja’far forbids it.

The inquisitor bows, extending a jewel-covered hand to his charge. There are nobles, members of all houses, their eyes trained directly on the unusual pair. Sin pays them no mind but notices the twinkle of paranoia in Ja’far’s eyes. With a satin tongue, he purrs, “may I offer you this dance?”

There is a pause, the silence louder than the tempest brewing in his mind, and Sin almost expects Ja’far to say yes. That would be his fantasy, however. He rarely gets what he wants from the elf these days

“I would dance, my lord inquisitor, but it would be unwise for you to be seen so close to a knife-ear”

But there’s more to it than that. There’s always more.

“Is this because of-”

“Sin.” Ja’far stops him, voice gentle, though he can still hear the bite of acid beneath diplomacy. And he knows, oh Maker does he _know_. Ja’far holds grudges the same way Sin holds liquor, and Sin, for all his charm and vivacity, will not receive his forgiveness. Not now, not tonight, and certainly not in a lifetime, should the elf remain stubborn as usual.

It’s always been a game, though, hasn’t it?

Sin looks Ja’far up and down, predatory eyes tearing apart his posture. Ja’far could dance with him if Sin demanded it. He could say, rather loudly, ‘what, you would turn down a dance offer from the inquisitor’, and Ja’far would have the choice between a dance, or disapproval from the entire court.

It’s simply a game. Always a game.

Ja’far plays dirty- Sin has never been able to win fairly, not in chess, nor in sparring, and he suspects this would be the same- When all of Orlais plays, why should they behave any differently? He could have his way a thousand times over if he commands it- He could force Ja’far to submit to his authority for the few moments it would take to play a waltz- Demand it.

And if Ja’far disobeys, denies- He’s large, strong… Ja’far might be deadly but without surprise and fancy knives, he’s fragile. Sin knows him, knows his body language well, knows where he hides all his spare knives- He wants and he _wants_ and he could _take-_ He could grab Ja’far and drag him to the center of the room and-

_Hunger, deep, disgusting, clawing through his rib cage, begging to be released. He wants to chase, to slaughter and claim his prey. He can do it. He wants it, oh Maker he_ **_wants_ ** _it… Scratch, scratch, scratch- there’s talons, pulling apart his flesh and dropping him into acid. It breaks down his humanity, destroys the last of his holy might-_

_All he can think of is Ja’far._

_He only wants Ja’far._

Oh, he could. Ja’far could be his, _permanently._ These thoughts, this desire? They’re sinful. He should be above such behavior, he knows this. He knows, he knows, _oh Maker he knows-_

So inevitably, he holds back the force and lust burning through his bones, he smiles, and he murmurs, “I hope you enjoy your evening. Do as you will.”

*********

5)

 

Ja’far is trying to leave, having just dropped off paperwork when the inquisitor stops him with a gentle touch to his shoulder. If not for their history, he might have thought the gesture affectionate. As things stand, however, he just feels disgust.  
  
“Do you love me?”   
  
This isn’t the first time Sin has asked such a question of him, and it likely won’t be the last. He isn’t certain when the answer changed, or even whether the caveat was the lies, the self-righteousness, or the callosity- perhaps all three. His heart is hardened, now, more than it ever was when it fed off the blood of others. Once, he knew not what it meant to love and cherish and loose- Now, he knows, and this loss has soured him.   
  
He isn’t vulnerable, not anymore.   
  
“I did,” he says.   
  
“Do you love me still, now?”   
  
“I loved you, Sin. I will say no more.”   
  
He won’t, just as he won’t linger in the company of manipulators. However, as he tries to step away, the gentle hand on his shoulder tightens. His grip is iron, authoritative, and it serves as shackles. Ja’far shudders, feeling an invisible chain gnaw at his throat.   
  
“What do you want from me?”   
  
“I miss you-“   
  
The audacity enrages him, blood becoming both fire and ice in its wake. He does not think to weigh the consequences. Rather, he grabs the hand at his shoulder, twists the inquisitor around him, and swings his other fist into that smug face.   
  
The force of the blow echos around him, and adrenaline rings in his ears- Sin looks shocked, and he breathes heavily, a feeling of power he’s not felt in months finally settling in his bones. There is blood on his knuckles, blood dripping down from the inquisitor’s nose, blood splattered across the floor- oh, he certainly broke something. Does he care? No. He can’t bring himself to. Not when he feels invigorated, reborn. He will not play the submissive anymore.   
  
Voice heavy, he bites, “no. You don’t have that right anymore.”   
  
And he is gone.

*********

6)

 

When faced with liquid temptation, Ja’far drinks.

He stands before the Well of Sorrows, back turned to his allies as the two humans bicker over the fate of his heritage. At first, he listens, entranced as always by Sin’s voice- But the pool is louder. It’s the collective voice of his people, of thousands of years of elves, speaking to one descendant. It calls to _him alone_ , and it demands he act.

And act he does.

Sin is still speaking when Ja’far steps into the water, eyes unfocused and clouded as he grows infatuated with the power drawing him in. Ja’far submerges himself fully under the water and opens his mouth, letting cool, bitter liquid flow down his throat. The world fades around him, and he is left alone and isolated in shadow. Fog swirls, whispers beckon, and Ja’far feels overwhelmed- He does not know how to handle the sudden vastness that has been interjected into his mind.

No… He might be physically alone, but he isn’t- not really. He is his entire race- he is the voices of every elf who ever lived and died serving their goddess- _His_ goddess.

When the water clears, Ja’far is left shaking, eyes wetting parts of his face not touched by tears in decades. Sin drops to his knees in front of him, and suddenly they’re embracing, sobbing together like real lovers. Ja’far clings desperately to the inquisitor, hoping things between them will turn up alright. The voices in his head tell him no, but he ignores them.

Later, after they escape, when they are safe in their once shared room, Sin tells Ja’far he’s scared of losing _him_ , and the elf feels a depraved satisfaction in knowing Sin understands exactly how he’d felt before. There is no more empty promise and bold lying- There is only what is and what isn’t. Sin is the Herald of Andraste, and Ja’far is bound to Mythal. Sin will stay, or he won’t- either way, Ja’far has leveled the playing field.

So why does getting back at him feel so poisonous?

*********

vii)

 

“Do you believe in any god?”

It became commonplace, at some point, for them to have these discussions after sex. In the afterglow of intimacy, their inhibitions are much lower, and their desire for intellectual stimulus grows. Sin has always felt closest to the world around him during these talks, grounded in the mundaneness of it all.

Though, this is their first time sharing a bed in some time. Likewise, it’s been a long time since they last talked as equals- _As lovers._

_(Perhaps it’s because they haven’t been. Not real lovers, anyway, not in some time. Things are better now, but still complicated, and while Sin is glad the war is done, he isn’t sure they’ll ever go back to what they once were. But for tonight, while they’re both drunk on wine and victory, he can pretend.)_

“I killed a god.”

“Yes.”

“I could have become a god.”

“But you didn’t.” Ja’far leans close, his breath hot and heavy against his bedmate’s ear. “Killing one god does not make you holy-”

“Careful-”

“Pride is a sin, you know…” Ja’far is egging him on. “-Perhaps the prideful inquisitor needs reminding of his mortality.”

The press of Ja’far’s lips against his own feels absolutely heavenly. He lets his lover devour him whole, and in doing so, finally breathes acceptance. Ja’far is right. He is nothing more than a prideful sinner, like any other man. Even with the Inquisition at his back, he is unholy. He is sacrilegious in the worst of ways to dare call himself better than any other.

But… it’s then, in realizing his sins, that he stops believing in a god. There is no higher power, no holy maker, no immortal creator- there cannot be, for it cannot be _him_.

That’s why, as he’s laid down, Sin knows; the only divinity that will ever be real, is the blasphemy of his lover’s tongue praying to a false god.


End file.
